Wayward Soul
by Amadeus Inkblood
Summary: NOTE: This is not the actual story. The REAL story is being rewritten and resubmitted, and this is just an update for my current readers. Read if you wish.
1. The Awakening

**Kingdom Hearts**

**Wayward Soul**

Chapter One

Awakening

Keith had been having weird dreams lately.

Dreams about light and darkness.

Good and evil.

Bright, indescribable figures and dark, horrible monsters.

They fought, one against the other, in a fierce, ageless war.

Never losing, never winning.

The dreams felt like ages, the battles within even longer.

But those dreams had always been thin, distant.

He'd only felt like a spectator, never a part.

Never until now.

Now, Keith was falling, tumbling through the endless darkness with nothing but his own body to tell him that anything was real. There was no wind, no sound of air rushing by. There was no light, no touch of warmth from a distant sun. There was only darkness and cold, endlessly flying past Keith without making even the slightest shiver of movement.

But he did feel…things, in the darkness. Things great and powerful, or small and weak. Things that passed, silent, unfeeling and uncaring. Things that thrashed, screaming, defiant and demonic. Things sat, waiting, or raced, searching. There was anger, confusion, apathy, rage, malice, hunger, mystery, horror, madness, sanity, obsession, sadness.

But fear…there was no fear. Instead, there was confidence. A self-serving smugness, brought on by existence, by being. Among some, their pride was a gaudy glare, for others, a faint glimmer. But that assurance, that absence of fear, was there all the same.

Keith didn't know what he felt. He didn't feel anything, but somehow, he didn't feel nothing, either. Something was there, in his heart of hearts, but whatever it was just sat there, never giving him a sign as to what it was or why it was there. It was…disconcerting. But just like everything else, he felt no fear, and so he simply fell, uncaring.

In time, he felt a change. He must've been spinning before, because he felt himself beginning to slow, until his head stayed up and his feet stayed down. The darkness hid everything from view, but Keith suddenly had the feeling that something was coming, something large, flat, and solid. Keith wasn't afraid. He felt himself slowing even more, and by the time his feet touched the mysterious floor, he had come to a perfect stop. There hadn't even been a bump; one moment, he'd been falling – the next, he was on solid ground.

But where?

He hadn't reached the bottom. Some instinct deep inside him told him that he wasn't even close to the end of the beginning, much less the end of the end. Instead, he was somewhere between, on a strange sort of middle ground between the forces that surrounded him. He looked around. Darkness was everywhere, above, around. But that was all; only darkness. Where was light?

The ground burst in answer, feathers and flappings erupting out from beneath his feet. Light shined up, and Keith felt his first emotion: surprise. He threw his hands up, shielding his eyes from both the birds and the stinging light. Heedless, the birds flapped up and away, even as more birds leaped from the edges of a glowing circle. As they left, more light shined to replace them, and by the time the flapping had begun to fade, Keith was squinting hard, trying to make his eyes adjust. It took so long that by the time he finally could see clearly, the birds were fading out of sight. He couldn't tell if they were doves or crows.

He shook his head, giving up on that curiosity, and looked at the floor, assuming another.

What he had taken to be light was really more of a glow; a pale blue, like the shine of uncut turquoise. It wasn't the only one. Other colors, softer and brighter blues, subtle grays, and a few tinges of the softest pink. They came together like pieces of stained glass, curving and twisting to create one great circle. It looked like there was a picture, some shape among the grays and blues, but it was hard to tell from so close up. The only thing he could make was a figure turned away, with a dark blue shirt and long brown hair, walking away. They looked familiar, but he couldn't be sure who they were. The only sure thing was the background. Beyond the strange figure, the blues and grays and pink blended together to form one great thing, a soft spectacle paying homage to the ideal it represented: Daybreak.

_So much to do…so little time. _

Keith looked up, surprised yet again. A voice, strange and unreal, had rolled out of the darkness, seemingly passing overhead. He hadn't heard it as much as he had felt it, rumbling and thundering without making a single real sound.

_Take your time. Don't be afraid. _

Keith looked around, trying to find a source of the mysterious voice… No. Not a voice. More of a… presence, in the dark, in the light, in Keith.

_The door has been shut._

Door? Keith looked around, searching. There was no door. What door? He looked up, almost expecting an answer. He got none; instead, he got an order.

_Now step forward__. _

_Can you do it?_

Could he do it? Keith almost laughed at the question. Of course he could walk -

His legs wouldn't move.

Surprise filled him again, and he looked down at his legs with wide eyes. They hadn't moved an inch. They sat there, useless, only good for holding him up.

_This is not a world of flesh and blood._

_Here, the rules are different._

_Here, you must first feel the movement. Then it will happen._

Keith didn't move. He simply stood there, confused. _Feel the movement?_ What was _that_ supposed to mean? He looked at his legs again, trying to find something that might be holding them back. They were bare. He tried to reach down and pull them up, but he suddenly found that he couldn't move his arms or torso either. That wasn't going to work. He scowled, trying to think of something to do.

_Feel the movement._

Keith looked up again, trying to find the voice and ask it what it meant – and he froze. His head. It was still moving. Why?

As quickly as it came, Keith almost blew the question off. It was stupid to ask why, he always moved like that. You just moved it back and forth, like that. It felt like rocking in – wait… felt…?

Oh.

Curious, Keith tried again. He remembered the feeling of walking forward, moving his legs and leaning into the step. He remembered it so well that it almost felt like he was doing it. Suddenly, he _was_ doing it; his legs obeyed, and they moved in time to the feeling. His body swayed with the movement, but he remembered balance, and he managed to stay upright. He walked forward, shaky at first, but he quickly grew used to the backwards way of moving. In less then a minute, he was walking like he always did – and more than that, he moved his arms and body and head. He was mobile. He could walk.

Walking triggered something, because the air, the _air itself_, suddenly rumbled as he stepped into the middle of the floor. Three spots of light erupted around the edge of the circle: one to the left, one to the right, and one straight ahead.

_Power sleeps within you._

Three tapered pedestals suddenly rose out of the lights, one after another, white and heavy-set like altars of granite. The rumbling died away, as did the light beneath the pedestals. But _on_ the pedestals, new lights began to shine, bursts throwing blazes of white into the endless black.

_If you shape it, it will give you strength._

Shapes appeared out of the lights, and as they slowly bobbed in the light, they became brighter, more defined. The ones to the sides solidified faster, a staff and a shield, but Keith only had eyes for the one ahead. It was the slowest to form, but to him, it almost looked like a sword-

_But your power is a shape in of itself._

_The question is how you will use it._

The objects disappeared, literally gone in a flash. Before Keith had time to register this, the air rumbled again, and the pedestals shifted as lights appeared under them, sinking a corner or a side and making them uneven and lopsided. After a pause like a breath, they fell in, and the lights faded away.

_Your time will come._

_Very, very soon._

_The Darkness has found its Chosen,_

_And so has the Light._

_Now, the Wayward Soul walks between._

_You must be prepared._

Keith blinked. Shape? Time? Chosen? _Prepared_? What was going on here?

There was no answer. There was a crash like breaking glass, somewhere behind and off to the side. Keith turned. The glass floor was breaking, sending showers of shards into the endless abyss – and the edge was coming closer, fast. Too fast. Keith turned back, thinking to run to the other edge and buy himself some time. But he only found another line of breaking glass, crumbling and falling away. He paused, and all of a sudden the ground under Keith had broken away. He was falling again.

And still, Keith wasn't afraid.

He fell, and the shards of the floor fell around him. In time, they faded away, either leaving him or simply ceasing to exist. Either way, Keith found himself alone, just him, the dark, and the things beyond.

But then, maybe not. A sudden pinprick of light, faint, artificial light appeared below him. He looked up (or down?) and saw that the light was like that of the floor that had just broken away. It was different colors and hues, but this floor too was a circle, with strange lines sweeping and crossing to make some indeterminable picture. The only difference was the colors: brighter blues, swirls of white. The colors of Morning.

Just like before, his body righted itself of its own accord, and he slowed to a stop as he touched down on the floor. He looked around, half expecting something to pop out of the ground again.

To his great surprise, something did.

Black spots appeared at the edges of the floor, almost as though they were seeping in from the darkness itself. They twitched at the edges, almost as if the shadows were alive, they kept growing until the shadows were bigger than Keith. They froze, for one second, dull blotches on an otherwise bright Morning.

They quivered once more - and then they _moved_, leaving the edge of the circle to ring around Keith. Surprised, Keith spread his feet apart, not sure if he should run or stay...

The shadows began to rise. Their inky blotches suddenly shifted, outlining something with arms, legs, and a head, becoming more and more real as they rose from the floor. In moments, they stood complete, standing on the floor rather than in it. Shadows, living, breathing darkness, stood there, in their own way, and looked at Keith.

And for the first time, Keith felt fear.

The Shadows were small, only reaching Keith's hip, but this was only because they stooped, hunched, like wild animals that hadn't quite become used to walking on two legs. But they had no choice; their front feet had been transformed into claws, wicked, hooks perfect for snaring and ripping, and they were only good for that. What they were supposed to rip was hard to say; they had no mouths to eat anything. Instead, there was only smooth, blank skin where a mouth might have been. They had a shambling gait, like they weren't even used to being solid, much less walking. They twitched as they moved, sniffing, though they had no nose or any sort of hole upon them. They're feet were shaped like pointed shoes, but it was as if they were only the thought of shoes. They had strange antennae atop their heads, long yet crooked, like an ant that had been stomped on too many times. Their bodies were shaped like children, save that they were changed, misshapen – and black. They were pitch black, like the darkness beyond the glass. They were strange creatures, frightening enough with their sharp claws and black bodies. But none of this was what scared Keith; what scared Keith was their eyes.

Hunger. That was what Keith saw in their eyes. Their blank, rimless yellow eyes spoke nothing but hunger, the need to fill some deep, endlessly horrible pit in their beings. It was the kind of hunger that could consume you at any moment, take your existence and leave your shell to rot away. It was the kind of hunger that drove people to madness, blank, blatant insanity that would drive you to do anything to fill that horrible sense of incompleteness. The kind of madness that had them looking at Keith, with a dull, fierce, insatiable hunger. The kind of madness that made Keith feel deathly afraid.

_A great journey lies ahead of you._

The voice was back. Keith didn't look for it; he was too busy watching the black things around him. More than once, he thought he saw one of them move like they were about to pounce.

_Your journey will be long. Or it may be short._

_The choice is yours. _

_But whatever you choose,_

_There will be great danger._

He was in danger _now_! Something held the black monsters back, but he had no idea how long it would last. They were growing more and more wild by the second. A few had started hopping in place, like a dog jumps against its leash, desperately wanting to tear something apart.

_But don't be afraid._

The Shadows were getting angry. They could see food mere feet away from them; flesh, light, something that could fill the hole inside. They wanted it. Keith could see it in their eyes, their movements. He knew that the moment they were free, he was dead.

_Let friends be your strength._

_You're never alone._

**FOOM!**

The sound tore through the eerie silence, impossibly loud, like the hammer of a cannon. One of the black things had burst, a flash of darkness so quick that Keith almost missed it. The creature faded into dark wisps and disappeared, like it had never been, like a bad dream. The other things turned, and Keith followed their gaze with equal surprise. A tall, dark figure stood there, strange weapon held out after its killing stroke.

Before Keith had time to think, the black things charged, leaping at Keith faster than he thought anything could ever move. Keith only had time for one terrifying moment before the things dodged around him, going after the strange newcomer and sparing Keith for later. The figure didn't so much as twitch, save for moving his strange weapon back into position, lazily lain across their shoulders. They stood so still that you'd almost think they didn't even notice the living Shadows only a few feet away, running fast, sharp claws gouging ugly gashes in the floor. Too late, Keith thought. For one moment, he was sure that the stranger was a dead man.

But only for one moment.

A flash of silver. A loud bang. The dark things fell back, four of them bursting and fading like the first. It happened so fast that Keith almost missed it; all he saw now was the same strange figure, legs spread and weapon out after another swing.

For only one, surreal moment, Keith took in the sight of his rescuer, their loose, black pants, the long, dark-blue cloak, a flash of a gold necklace, and long, black hair beneath a shady hood, hiding their face, before he moved again, blurring out of sight from speed alone.

The stranger leaped, rocketing forward as they brought their weapon down on a scrambling monster. It burst, but it hadn't even faded before the figure had flashed over to blow through another three. That's right, _flashed_. There was no other word for it; they moved so fast that Keith vaguely wondered if they had flown. They were so fast that by the time he had thought it, the stranger had flashed to another two monsters and slashed them to pieces.

The stranger paused, and Keith tripped over his own thoughts. Wait – they were done? Was it over...? Well, the place looked empty, but – no! There was one more! One little Shadow (what _were_ these things?) had been blown clear across the glass, and it was only just getting up, still drunkenly stumbling as it tried to gather it's thoughts.

Another movement drew Keith's eye, but he turned only to see empty space where the stranger had been. Given the time, he might have thought they had left him for dead. But something drew his eyes up, high above his head.

His jaw dropped.

The stranger was _there_, in the air, almost twenty feet up.

Time slowed. Good thing, too; if it hadn't, Keith wouldn't have seen what happened next. And if he hadn't seen it, he never would've believed it.

The stranger turned in midair, twisting and thrusting their weapon forward, like a spear. They glowed, blue light covering them like flames, as they suddenly pointed their strange weapon at the last Shadow. The poor beast noticed; Keith saw it jump, this first sign of fear he'd ever seen from these creatures. There was a flash, and the stranger streaked forward, guided by the weapon, guided to the monster. It was so fast, so bright, that Keith was blinded for just a moment. It was enough; there was another blast, and the light suddenly faded. All that was left was the stranger and the monster, one with a blade in the other. The Shadow twitched, jerked, then burst, disappeared. The stranger didn't move until they were sure it was gone, then, finally, they stood, laying the blade across their shoulders once more.

Time resumed. Keith blinked. Shock held him as still as the stranger for one long second. A small voice inside, common sense, screamed that that was impossible, that was simply impossible! Reality screamed louder. It had happened. He was saved.

_Behind you!_

Keith turned.

There was another one. One of the little monsters had been blown behind Keith. Now it had recovered. It had found prey. It had leaped, eyes huge and claws out. Keith fell back, but he knew it was too late. Time had slowed again. He could see it moving; its claws were aimed straight for his chest, his heart, and Keith could do nothing to stop it.

"No..."

Death stabbed claws toward Keith's chest.

SHUNK

Another flash, and the monster burst, stabbed in midair.

Keith blinked.

The stranger had flashed in low, using momentum and another spin to reach around Keith and stab the Shadow through the chest, inches before it could've torn his chest open like an overripe melon. The stranger had saved him again.

Keith was silent.

So was the stranger. Even as he stood, pulling the weapon back around Keith, he never said a word, just checked his weapon for damage and walked calmly away. He might have been in the park, out for a stroll in the midday sun, if they weren't on a window in the middle of nowhere.

Speechless, Keith watched after him. A smell rose to his nostrils, a stray waft of the stranger's scent, and he suddenly knew who the stranger was. At the same time, Keith finally managed to get a good look at the stranger's weapon, and he suddenly knew what the stranger had used. He wasn't sure which of the revelations shocked him more: the fact that the man who had just saved his life used a giant, silver key, or the fact that the man wasn't a man at all, but rather a girl. A girl that he knew.

"...Michelle?"

She didn't hear. She walked on, letting her key disappear in a flash of light as she faded into a wall of darkness. Then, she was gone.

There was a soft hush, like wind sucked down an empty tunnel. The light changed, and Keith looked down to find the floor beneath him changed. The lights were blotted out with a huge, inky blotch, black with a subtly pulsing hue of the deepest purple. Keith sank in. He tried to pull his feet up, but that only pulled him down faster. In seconds, his head had gone under, and darkness swept over him.

The voice came one more time.

_Daybreak has passed._

_Morning dawns._

_Farewell._

_Your journey starts today._

_What will you choose?_

The voice echoed, faded.

And finally, Keith woke up.

**A Disclaimer, before you go: I do not own Kingdom Hearts or any of the respective mythos of the stories I bring into this story. I do, however, own my own characters, worlds, creatures, powers, stories etc. But I think you knew that already.**

**Until next time, I remain yours truly,**

**-Amadeus Inkblood**


	2. The Morning After

Chapter Two

The Morning After

The morning went by in a blur; the shock of the dream made everyday life seem to run together. Waking up ran into showers, and showers melted into breakfast. Before Keith knew it, he was showered, fed, and dressed, with a big yellow bus throwing a sliding glass door open for him. He walked on in a daze, and found his usual seat at the back. The bus rumbled beneath him, carrying him away from home.

The dream had, and was, carrying him farther away from reality.

Even now, he couldn't get his mind off of it. It was just so…_alien_, so _vivid_ that he couldn't stop thinking about it. All those…platforms, those Shadows, that…that _voice_! What did it all mean? Was it some sign – some prophecy of the future? No, that was stupid; nobody could see the future, certainly not in a dream. But then what did that make the dream? Some…alternate reality – wait, what was he saying! An _alternate reality!_? Was he going insane?

…Well…maybe a little bit.

He'd seen Michelle, after all.

And she'd been dead for three years.

Keith squirmed, suddenly uncomfortable. Prophecies, alternate realities, dreams – he could write those off as easily as breathing. But Michelle…there was something different about that. He hadn't just seen Michelle, he'd…he _smelled_ her, _felt_ her – he'd _even sensed_ her in that strange, outlandish way, like… like when you meet an old friend…When you find an old friend, lost for so many years, and suddenly…_poof._ There they are, like they had never left, just the way that they always were…

…But…she'd been able to fight in the…dream. Before she died, Michelle didn't even like to _think_ about hurting bugs, much less people…or…Shadows…

…Maybe she wasn't quite the way she was…but even so…

It was Michelle.

A tear rolled down his cheek.

Keith wiped it away hurriedly, hoping no one had noticed. He must've had something in his eye; that's why it kept watering up.

Yeah…

The bus rumbled again, grinding to a halt. Another rumble, this one of moving bodies, met Keith's ears; everyone was up, pulling on backpacks and shoving their way up the aisle. After gathering his thoughts and jumping to his feet, Keith joined them. The tide swept him up and along, and he found himself hurried along out of the bus, over the sidewalk, and into Chalmers' High School, Home of the Panthers.

The tiled hallways and fluorescent lights were almost welcome. They were brash and gaudy, to put it eloquently; basically, they kept Keith distracted. Even his classes, long, boring and frustrating as they were, would be a welcome distraction. They'd keep his mind off the dream; give him a chance to forget about it, clear his head. After all he'd seen…or felt…or done… he was ready for a healthy dose of reality.

He got it alright.

X – X – X – X – X

"Mr. Harris!"

Keith paused, pencil hovering just above the paper, and blinked.

Uh oh.

He took a long moment, vainly hoping the teacher would go on. She didn't. He looked up, fearing the worst.

Sure enough, his eyes met gray cloth, coarse and closely knit. It was the kind of dress you never wanted to touch, either out of fear or plain common sense. You had to think about who was wearing it, after all. And speaking of whom-

"Up _here,_ Mr. Harris."

Keith blinked again before looking up there.

Ms. Griswold loomed overhead like a dark statue, a tall, vindictive Goddess of War with paper for skin and fire for eyes. Her glasses didn't help curb her glare, either- in fact, a flash across the glass often got her point across better than even her most poisonous look. Really, that was a good thing. Her face had frozen into a derisive scowl ages ago; the look in her eyes was the only thing that really let you know where you stood. And judging by the way the sparks were flying, Keith was dangerously close to the edge.

She remained frozen for a second more, almost like she was giving Keith a chance to pray. He didn't take it. He just stared back, feigning polite ignorance.

A hand shot out and snatched away the paper on Keith's desk. Keith didn't flinch, but it wasn't easy; the movement was so fast that he couldn't tell if she'd going for the paper or his unguarded throat. Lucky for him (sort of…) she'd grabbed the paper, and she'd given him another minute to live. Slowly, Ms. Griswold brought the paper up to her face and adjusted her glasses. She inspected the paper for another moment before she lowered it, freezing Keith in an icy glare.

"Mr. Harris."

Keith didn't answer for a second; he had to figure out a way to clear his throat without making a sound. He managed - barely.

"Yes, Ms. Griswold?"

"What class are you in?"

Keith knew the answer; he'd memorized his schedule months ago. But even so, he wanted to wait a moment before he answered; give the old Griswold a chance to cool off. He looked around the room, like he needed to figure out where he was. The walls were blank and dull, save a few of the most strictly informative posters, devoid of all but the most basic pictures. A large chalkboard (yes, a _chalkboard_) hung at the front of the class, directly behind the rigid rectangle of the teacher's desk. The desks were lined in rows, so perfectly aligned that it almost seemed like someone had gone along with a ruler and lined them up. Which, knowing Ms. Griswold, someone probably did, and that someone probably wore a gray dress, standing in front of him now.

As for the students, they usually faced the front of the class as rigidly as the desks - but now was different. Now, there was something interesting for a change. Every student was turned to watch the scene play out, be it two degrees or a full one-eighty. Some watched with wide eyes, secretly glad they hadn't been found out for something they were doing; more, however, watched with fiendish grins, sadistically elated that Keith, of all people, had been the one singled out.

Keith pointedly ignored them. Instead, he focused on the bland cube of paper on everyone's desks, the soul-sucking fiend known only as The Textbook. It had the classes name printed across the spine, in large, no-nonsense letters. He studied it carefully before turning back to the questioner.

"History, Ms. Griswold."

Ms. Griswold said nothing - not until she looked back to the paper she had stolen, anyway. She turned her eyes, the paper, and the drawing upon it back to Keith. "So would you like to explain to me why you think this is Art class?"

A nasty chuckle broke out somewhere on the far side of the room. For once, Ms. Griswold ignored it.

Keith grimaced.

He couldn't help it. He suddenly recognized the picture, the absentminded doodle that had diffused across the page. It was Daybreak; the strange platform he had seen in his dream. But now, it had more; not only did it have the girl, Michelle, he realized, walking into the horizon, perfectly balanced between morning and night, but she was ringed with circles, smaller portraits of nameless faces. His sketch didn't do them justice, but just seeing the rough outlines brought back the real things, the vague pictures that he hadn't even consciously registered in the dream…assuming he'd been conscious at all.

There he went off again. Stop it! This wasn't a dream! This was reality! This was school – get a grip already!

Ms. Griswold, unknowingly, was more than willing to help him with that.

She was taking his silence to be guilt; her nostrils flared more and more as her glasses grew bright, flashing dangerously like warning lights outside a jail yard.

A minute passed.

Keith, still busy trying to ignore the faces he had drawn, had no answer.

Finally, Ms. Griswold had had enough. She had reached critical mass, and she looked _mad_. Falsetto calm, cold fury, tear-off-your-head-one-thread-at-a-time _mad_. Keith was dead; "extra credit" was unavoidable. The only question now was what would _his_ extra credit be?

Ms. Griswold turned sharply, snapping her heels in an almost military about-face. She took the page, scanned the lonely girl and the badly-sketched faces one more time, and walked up to the front of the class, shoes clacking loudly in the strangely still air. Nobody dared breath too loudly as they followed her steps.

In moments she was clear of the desks, and she was crossing the room and stopping beside the door with another terse _snap_. Wait, no, not by the door - by the wastebasket. Keith's heart jumped, unbidden. He had a sudden feeling about what was coming next – and he didn't like it.

Not a word was spoken as she took the paper in both hands. She gave one last, poisonous glare in Keith's direction – and then she tore it, making a very clean rip straight through the middle. Through Michelle.

Keith winced, a sharp pain stabbing him in the chest. It…physically _hurt_ to see Daybreak torn in half, to see Michelle split in two. It was almost like seeing the real thing being torn apart, mercilessly dismembered like a lamb being butchered.

Ms. Griswold must've noticed the look; she didn't stop there. She tore the paper again, into fourths. Keith winced accordingly, this jab a little sharper than the last. Ms. Griswold tore the paper again. Then again. And again. When the bundle of paper was too small to tear, Ms. Griswold slowly, deliberately, dropped it into the wastebasket bit by bit, the heavy packets of shredded paper hitting the metal with a series of dull thuds.

It took one agonizing minute before it was finally gone. By the end, Keith felt like he was actually being stabbed, over and over again in his…heart?

The picture spent, Ms. Griswold wiped her hands on her skirt, like they were covered in some foul filth. Unsatisfied, she straightened and gave Keith a final look before sealing the deal. "This," she said, motioning to the garbage in the wastebasket, "is your grades as of this moment. If you want them back to the pitiful state they were in, Mr. Harris, you will write two page reports on the content of _each_ of the posters around the room. For someone so obsessed with pictures, it should hardly be a challenge. Having them due by Monday almost seems _too_ generous on my part. Nevertheless, you have today, tomorrow and Sunday. Understood?"

Oh…man… Keith cringed, repulsed by the thought. There were thirteen posters - and he _hated_ every one.

But what could he do? He couldn't afford to fail this class. His grades were all he had.

With that sad thought, Keith could only mumble, "...Yes, ma'am."

"What?"

"Yes, ma'am!" Keith said, more forcefully this time. Ms. Griswold hated mumbling.

"Good." Ms. Griswold walked back to the chalkboard, stamping her heels on the floor like she wished Keith's head was beneath. But it wasn't. So, to blow off steam, she took out her anger on the rest of the class.

She said, turning, "And to make up for the time we have lost, I want _everyone_ – yes, including you, Mr. Harris – to turn in a one-page report on today's lecture. Also due by Monday. Standard format. Single spaced._ Handwritten_."

Finally sated, Ms. Griswold resumed her lecture, heedless of the bewildered looks that bordered on outspoken outrage. Keith, with no chance to escape, was left at the mercy of endless homework, an angry class, and, worse yet, everyday life.

Just another ordinary day – another dose of reality.

X – X – X – X – X

They got him outside the classroom, happily, albeit unknowingly, giving Keith his second dose of reality for the day.

"Hey, Harris!"

Keith turned.

_WHACK_

The punch came out of nowhere - or at least it looked that way. All he'd seen was a skin colored blur before the fist made contact. It had a blunt conversation with his nose until force and blood interrupted, and Keith was suddenly flying, helplessly crashing into a locker. He barely noticed the hit; his nose was hurting so bad that he literally couldn't see straight.

He heard laughter as he slid to the floor. Great. Donavan had brought the whole gang.

_WHUMP_

Donavan followed up with a kick, viciously digging his toe deep into Keith's stomach. He even managed to hit the surgical scars; Keith had had surgery a few weeks ago, but he didn't think anyone had noticed, much less cared enough to remember.

The Beast could surprise you like that.

More laughter. Donovan's laugh stood out like his smell.

"Get up, Harris!"

Keith didn't want to. Of course he didn't want to – Donavan only wanted him up so he could punch him back down again. How else was he supposed to get his kicks?

"I said get up!"

Keith had no choice; if he didn't stand on his own, Donavan would haul him up himself, probably by the hair. Slowly, Keith pushed, fighting the protests from his injured stomach and standing to face down the Beast.

He laughed again, elated to see the look on Keith's face. It was mixture of anger and fury, touched with the slightest hint of hopeless fear. A real caged animal. Keith new his place. He had no chance. The Beast could do whatever he wanted, and Keith couldn't do anything about it. Best of all (worst, for him,) Keith knew it. He couldn't do anything. All he could do was simply try to keep some shred of dignity - but against Donavan, that was easier said than done.

Donavan was an animal, to say the least; he certainly looked the part. He had a strangely squashed face, much like a gorilla, and his hair, coarse and black, was much the same, covering his head and his arms in thick coats. Beneath the hair, his arms were wrapped with freakishly huge muscles, perfect for throwing his ham-sized fists like cannonballs. He looked every bit like an animal bred for the schoolyard – and he smelled like it too. Ah, the smell! He smelled like a monkey house, in every disgusting way you can think of. It was enough to make your eyes water if you got too close. Normally, Keith wouldn't go anywhere near the Beast if he had the choice. But that was just it; he _didn't_ have a choice. Whatever he wanted, Donavan had other ideas.

_WHAM_

Donavan hit him with a vicious gut punch, driving Keith back into the locker again. But this time, he couldn't slide down. Donovan kept his fist grinding in, driving his back into the wall and the air from his lungs. Keith dangled helplessly, feet an inch above the floor, fighting for breath against the fist in his gut and the smell in the air. He coughed, and something sour and metallic climbed up his throat. He swallowed it down, hoping it wasn't blood.

"Geez, Harris," Donavan growled, breath hot against Keith's ear. "You really like to play the bad guy, don't you?"

He grabbed Keith's shirt and threw him, flipping him over his shoulder like a sack of flour. Keith hit the floor with a sickly slam, but before he even had time to bounce, the rest of Donavan's gang, the Pack, had circled around, tightening the cage. They towered above him as he huddled on the floor, wide eyed and breathless from pain and shock. The Pack was taunting and laughing and calling him names, but not one of them dared to touch him. He was Donavan's prey - they knew it as well as Keith.

Donavan gave them all a subtle reminder of that. He gave Keith another kick, flipping him from his side onto his back. When Keith's arms had moved, flopped limply to the ground as he fought to stay conscious, The Beast stamped down, driving his boot hard into Keith's chest. Keith coughed again, a choked, hacking gasp of pain and surprise. It was hard to say whether Donavan noticed how far he was going or not; if he did, he didn't seem to care.

Keith was seeing stars, zipping and bursting in front of his eyes. That was a warning sign; Donovan was going too far. If he didn't let up soon, Keith didn't know what would happen. Except for the obvious, but…Donavan wouldn't go _that_ far just to prove a point-

Donavan leaned down, not close enough for Keith to smell his foul breath, but enough that Keith could count every hair on his chin and every line in his glare.

"So there we were in History," said Donavan, like it was the most casual thing in the world, "minding our own business, doing our thing – when _you_ go and decide to put on a show for us. Really, I'm flattered; it was great! You got chewed out, your grades went down the crapper, and Ms. Griswold nailed you with her famous 'extra credit.' Honestly, I'd have given you an encore if I was half as brainless as you are!"

The gang laughed, all on perfect cue. Keith gritted his teeth. Beyond that, nothing. Always nothing.

Donavan went on:

"But you know, I – and this is just me, but…I _don't_ want to do a bunch of brainless homework on my precious weekend, so I keep my mouth shut in good ol' History class. If you want to waste your life in a bunch of books, that is just fine with me. But YOU-"

He twisted his boot – hard. Keith cried out, the pain catching him off guard. He felt skin stretching dangerously beneath his shirt, coming painfully close to tearing.

"-_You_ couldn't keep the fun to yourself. _You_ had to spread it around. Now _we _have to do some stupid report thing on a class we don't even like. And on the _weekend, _no less…"

Donavan lifted his boot, stepping back to let Keith catch his breath. Keith gasped, taking full advantage of what he was sure was just that hush before the lightning struck.

"You know, Harris..." Donavan had turned away, shaking his head like a disappointed parent. Keith pushed himself up, knees shaking and mind racing. He was trying to guess the odds that he could get away, make a break for it. They weren't good; even if it had been just him and Donavan, he was so weak and so bruised that he wouldn't get five feet before the Beast had him again. And with the Pack standing around, just waiting for an excuse… no. He had no chance. He was caged in, thoroughly and utterly trapped.

"I really, _really _don't want to do homework on a weekend," said Donavan. He paused for one long moment, letting Keith find his feet and his hands ball into fists. He spoke again, and it suddenly grew deathly silent. "And I'm sure -"

He turned, fist raised.

Time slowed.

Keith saw it coming.

It was just like his dream.

But now, there was no voice. There were no Shadows.

There was Donavan, his fist, and Keith.

He was really alone.

Keith tried to dodge, jump aside. Help himself.

No good; he was just too slow.

_WHAM_

"-that _you _don't want me doing homework either."

The Beast's first punch had nearly broken Keith's nose; this one finished the job. Keith felt it snap, felt blood spurt out across his upper lip. The force of the blow knocked him back, into the waiting arms of the Pack. They pushed him back, laughing, but not before one of them spit on him. They laughed harder. Keith stood there, silent, shaking.

Donavan was not smiling. He stepped forward and grabbed Keith by the hair, pulling him up to make sure he was still conscious. When he was sure, he went on. His breath smelled like sour milk and spoiled cabbage.

"So here's how it's going to work. Me and my friends are crossing the Hudson the second that school gets out. We're getting out of this two-bit town. We're partying it up in the city. And _you_ get to clean up this little mess of yours by doing _all_ of our reports - hey!" He gave Keith a shake. He flopped like a rag doll. "Don't look at me like that! I could _not_ care less about _your_ stupid homework! All I care about is that you do _mine_. Otherwise, I'm going to get angry." He twisted his hand, and Keith's head twisted beneath. Donavan took a long moment to look at the scar, that thin, white line along Keith's neck. If he had had time, he would've looked at that scar on Keith's stomach as well.

"And you sure didn't like the _last_ time I got angry."

He dragged Keith closer. His breath made Keith want to vomit - maybe that could cover up the smell…

"Got it?"

For a long moment, nothing happened. It looked like he was shaking again, trembling ever so slightly. But finally, Keith nodded, feeling blood drip further down his face. No choice.

"Good."

Donavan let go, and Keith crumpled to the floor in a heap, loosing a pained groan as his chest folded in half. Donavan stepped over him without a second glance, and as fast as the Beast had come, he disappeared. The Pack followed close behind, hopping over Keith and cackling madly as they went. Everyone jumped over him except for one, a short freshman with a lip ring who snarled, "Enjoy the weekend," before stomping into his stomach again and running off.

Then they were gone.

X – X – X – X – X

Keith didn't know how long he lay there, or how many people may have walked by, leaving him hunched in pain and fury. The pain and the injuries made him dizzy and light headed; there were several times where his body felt numb, like it might as well have not been there. He couldn't even tell how long he lay there on the cold white stone – it could've been days, it could've been seconds. He was too far out of it to know, or even care. He only remembered one person in particular – the last _living _person he expected to see.

Devon.

Keith was almost unconscious when he recognized him, something, something like the same out-of-body feeling that had helped him recognize Michelle, helping him here, to recognize Devon. His face came into focus for one crystal-clear moment. Keith took him in in an instant: the boldly brown skin, the defiantly spiky black hair, the mysteriously dark brown eyes, so deep they almost seemed black in that single moment.

Then he'd faded out, his outline returning to the same blurred vision he'd been seeing since the beating.

Keith's mind raced, flashes of memory flickering before his eyes. Pictures of children happily playing, a brown-haired girl, a black-haired boy, a blonde-haired Keith. Growing up, growing together. Smiling, laughing, playing, living.

And then the fire…

Keith murmured a word, a name, hardly daring to hope. "Devon…"

He couldn't see Devon's face – but he didn't have to. Devon let out a small sound, a contemptuous scoff, before he turned and walked away, blurring into the crowd.

Keith watched him go, and he felt something inside him walking off with him. Something else broke; whatever it was, it hurt infinitely more than his nose, or anything for that matter. It hurt with every heartbeat, every pulse pounding like the impact anew. It hurt with every step he heard carrying Devon away, fading into the crowd, still blaming Keith. It hurt like only the way an old friend could make you hurt.

Keith lost track of reality again, this time willingly, hoping to tune out of the pain of isolation. People came and went. They ignored Keith, looking the other way. Everyone trying to remain an innocent bystander. Leaving Keith alone.

All alone.

It wasn't long after that Keith decided something: His dream was just that – a stupid dream. It wasn't a prophecy. It wasn't an alternate reality. It was a stupid, stupid _dream_. And it was _wrong_.

Michelle was dead.

Devon was gone.

He was absolutely and utterly alone.


End file.
